


Accept No Substitute

by clumsygyrl (thegirlthatisclumsy)



Series: The Real Thing [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5 words prompts, Amnesia, F/F, Fix-It, Grief and Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/clumsygyrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can't ever tell if you're bullshitting me or you're serious.  You have one good poker face.”</p><p>Clint swallowed hard.  “You should keep looking. Maybe you'll figure me out.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accept No Substitute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schuyler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schuyler/gifts).



> 5 Word Prompt fic - I asked Schuyler to give me five random words to get me to write. This is what came out. A Fix-It fic for her and myself. Prompt words were: Olympics, handbag, bobblehead, shop teacher, booze. There will be a companion piece where this fic falls into the middle of (I apologize if that makes no sense.)

It was a one off, really. Clint had been wandering around the destruction of Manhattan, kicking pebbles and asphalt out of his way like he could kick the guilt of helping create the destruction right out of his path. He knew it was stupid, but the walking helped clear his head. He knew he was being tailed. It was almost as if they were waiting for him to crack. 

Phil was dead. Clint didn't like it but he accepted it. They were soldiers, most of them, and it came with the territory along with the dog tags.

The body warm metal against his chest with two extra tags on the chain made his breath stop for a second. 

The outside just felt too vast at the moment. He stumbled into the first shop that his feet carried him to and it smelled like every pub and hometown bar he'd ever had the pleasure of hunkering down in between ops and missions. The staff was friendly and the guy behind the counter had a haircut that was growing out just past regular high and tight. Clint didn't have to acknowledge the faint knowing smile from the guy. 

“You look like you could use a beer.” The guy paused and eyed Clint, then shook his head. “C'mere, you look like you could use a beer and something to do.”

Clint wanted to protest that he had plenty to do. Arrangements to make, world to save, egos to put up with, paperwork to file and range time to clock, but he let a steady hand guide him to the back of the store. The guy's name was Danny and he'd been making beer before he could legally buy it. “Learned from my uncle. He said it was always good to keep your hands busy. Something about the Devil and idle ones or something. I just liked that I made something, y'know?”

Clint didn't know, but he nodded any way.

He left with the kit and walked all the way back to the Tower.

The first batch turned out too bitter.

The second was too hoppy.

The third one made Clint remember the tiny hole in the wall English pub that Phil took them to on their fourth official date.

Danny had been right. Clint had needed that beer and something to do.

+

Clint had wandered into the op knowing that something was wrong. It was stupid. He was a trained agent with over 10 years under his belt, but the sight of _him_ made him stumble step almost right into a bandsaw.

“Watch it!”

The class came to halt and Clint just stared.

“Can I help you?”

No recognition and Clint swore that he would deck Phil Coulson in his lying stupidly gorgeously missed face. “I'm Mr. Reynolds. The new shop teacher?” The cover name slipped from his lips easily. There was a bell buzzer and he got distracted for a moment when the rush of teenagers, bad cologne and body odor rushed by him and out of the door.

Phil gave him a half smile, one that Clint knew and had known and had held on to in his head for the past two months of not having Phil there. “I'm Mr. Mackinaw. I teach History. I'm sure these guys and gals and people would like someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

Clint nodded dumbly and set his bag down on the work bench at the front and center of the classroom. “Please, call me Clint.”

Phil held his hand out and grinned. “James Mackinaw, I'm new here myself. Mr. Denardo's heart attack hit the kids hard. You know, having someone just drop out of their lives like that.”

“Yeah, it's upsetting,” Clint said and cleared his throat. “You ever been to Georgia?”

“State or country?” Phil/James asked with a smile.

Clint closed his eyes for a moment. That was their signal, their phrase. “Peaches over borscht any day,” Clint said throat dry and he waited.

“What?” 

That was not part of the exchange.

“Phil?”

“No, James. Mackinaw. Are you feeling okay, Clint?”

“No, no, I'm really not.”

+

“So, you make them and sell them on the internet?” 

Clint sipped at his beer, relishing the fruit undertones and nodding when Phil/James smiled, touching the top of the Iron Man toy and letting the head waggle. “Yeah. It's crazy what people will pay for these days. It's a hobby. What about you? Any hobbies?” 

Clint's “house” was now filled with a collection of toys and oddities that he'd picked up or been gifted to by students. It wasn't his home. That was miles away and even then it wasn't really a home without Phil there.

“I read a lot. Watch a lot of documentaries and I'm not a half bad baker,” Phil/James said.

Clint and Phil/James had been meeting like this for the past few weeks. Just talking and getting to know one another as colleagues and friends, but the underlying attraction was profound. It felt familiar but new to Clint.

The yelling and screaming over the comm to HQ when he’d returned back to his “home” that day was now legendary. Hill had tried to placate and Fury had yelled right back, but it was Tasha who'd finally calmed him down enough for him to listen.

“...We couldn't tell anyone. They had to replace his heart. Fully functioning Shi'ar tech in Phil Coulson's chest. The oxygen and blood loss not to mention the knock on the head he got when the Helicarrier did those swan dives did not help. For all intents and purposes, Phil is James. It was one of his first covers. James Mackinaw is a sophomore and junior history teacher at Elm High in Bridgeport, Oregon.”

“What the fuck am I doing here, Tash?”

There was a pause and a sigh. “You're there to bring him home, Clint. If it's possible. He... You're familiar and we could bring him in now and try to force him to remember, but this was safer and...”

“Kinder,” Fury gritted out and Clint wanted to punch him in the face.

“Fine,” Clint said. He slammed his hand down on the top of the laptop and there was only a mild satisfaction when the case cracked.

But that had been almost a month ago and Phil/James still didn't remember that Clint liked purple or that he was allergic to Tide laundry detergent or that Clint preferred yoga to pilates. But Clint saw glimmers of his Phil in the way that Phil/James moved and talked and spoke about the things he liked.

“This thing is both endearing and slightly creepy,” Phil/James said and flicked the bobblehead again making a face. Clint knew that face. It was usually the precursor to his Phil saying something scathing about Tony Stark. Clint had missed that face. “Not a fan of that guy.”

“Captain America fan then?” Clint asked handing Phil/James a fresh beer.

“How'd you know?” Phil/James asked with a delighted laugh.

“Lucky guess,” Clint said with faint smile and there was a clink of bottle necks touching.

“You get a lot of those. Lucky guesses,” Phil/James' eyes squinted slightly in the corners and he sipped at his beer with a happy satisfied sigh.

Clint shrugged and he tipped back on his chair to give Phil/James a look. “Actually, I'm pretty shit at reading most people.” Lie. “Maybe I just know you, James.” Truth. “Or maybe I knew a different you in another life.” Truth.

Phil/James laughed Phil's real laugh and he patted a hand against Clint's bicep. The touch made Clint tighten his hold on his beer. “You believe all that stuff? Different universes and timelines and aliens?”

“You don't?”

“Seems far fetched. Like out of a comic book or a movie.”

“James, man, heroes are awesome. So are happy endings,” Clint waggled his brows and Phil/James groaned good naturedly.

“I can't ever tell if you're bullshitting me or you're serious. You have one good poker face.”

Clint swallowed hard. “You should keep looking. Maybe you'll figure me out.”

“I'll do that.”

Clint looked down and noticed that he'd squeezed the bottle so hard he'd have a bruise from the edge later. Small and big hurts and conversation, for some reason that made more sense than anything else at the moment.

+

“You'll like it. It's the outdoors. You can't spend every weekend hermitted in your house, Mackinaw,” Clint said dragging Phil/James to a stall. 

“Seriously though, archery?” Phil/James looked askance at the shooting range. “I mean, gun range would have made more sense.”

“How's that?” Clint slipped on the protective glasses and nodded to Phil/James to put his on. 

“You're ex-military, aren't you?” Phil/James asked and put the glasses on.

Clint paused. “What makes you say that?”

“Takes one to know one, Reynolds. Your bearing, the way you talk and stand. Hell, the way you handle a carving knife,” Phil/James grinned and Clint laughed at the memory of their shared sad Thanksgiving in Clint's “house” the previous week. “It takes one to know one. You had to be some kind of black ops or something. SEAL? Or Delta?”

Clint blinked and he covered that by checking the tension on the range's very sad selection of weaponry. “Neither. Uh, that I can mention. So, what were you?”

“Ranger,” Phil/James said with not arrogance, but a familiar pride.

Phil Coulson had been a Ranger. James Mackinaw had never been in the military.

Clint lined up his shot and the arrow sang its way down the alley thudding dead center in the target. “I qualified for the Olympics when I was fifteen.”

Phil/James smirked and took aim with the shoddy piece of shit crossbow they'd rented and fired.

The arrow bit into the target, side by side with Clint's arrow.

“Always fancied myself a bit of a marksman myself, Reynolds.”

+

It started and ended with a handbag.

Clint was three months into the op and he and Phil/James hadn't made any progress. Well, there had been progress, but Clint hadn't done more than hug the guy and Clint ached to put his mouth on Phil to relearn just how good he tasted. He slammed his hand against the wall and regretted immediately when a voice called out from behind him. There was a thunk of heavy leather hitting fake wood table top and Clint knew he was being saved.

“That is the most obvious sign of sexual frustration I have ever seen.”

Clint shut his eyes and the tension seeped out of him, drained him and he turned and fell forward knowing that deceptively fragile looking but strong arms would catch him. “Tash...” He felt stupid when his eyes started to burn.

“Oh, dorogoy. Shhh, all will be well,” Natasha hugged him tight and Clint tucked his face against her neck and she should look ridiculous standing in the middle of a high school shop class dressed in expensive silk and leather looking like a runway model and still smelling faintly of gun oil and cordite. 

“Hey, Clint... Oh, god. Pardon me, I'll just-,” Phil/James said turning to leave the room.

“Oh, hey. No. Meet my-,” Clint stammered looking at Natasha.

“Sister, Natalie. Just visiting,” Natasha held her hand out to Phil/James and Clint saw immediately that Phil was not buying what Tasha was selling.

“Sister, right.” Phil/James shook Natasha's hand and gave Clint a look.

“Foster sister. We lived in the same orphanage many years ago. Clint protected me. And I protected him,” Natasha said and her smile was even and warm. Clint detected a little shininess and he realized that this would have been the first time Tasha would have seen Phil since the Helicarrier.

Phil/James looked automatically chastened. “Ah, oh. Then I'm sorry for the misunder-.”

“No, no. It is a common mistake. My girlfriend would probably take offense, but she is at the moment probably herding the bag of cats that is her boss and his associates,” Natasha said lightly and pulled Phil in close and kissed his cheek. “Clint has told me a lot about you. I'm glad he's found a friend here.”

Phil/James blushed. “Er, he makes it easy to be his friend.”

“We're having dinner. Clint told me about the brewery gastro pub that has just opened and I'm dying to try it. It's one of the hardest menus to design.”

Phil/James looked at Clint and Clint gave him a smile. “Please save me from her interrogation. Her techniques are brutal.”

“I don't know. You suffering at your sister's hands...”

“You're a cruel man, Mackinaw. I will buy you all the beer.”

“Hard bargain, but sure.”

The handbag slipped over Natasha's arm and she smiled at Phil. “Wonderful. Now I want to see your classroom and hear all the dirt you have on my brother,” Tasha looped her arm through Phil/James and led him out into the hall where an ocean of hormonal teenagers lay in wait. Clint was sure that Natasha would be fueling a lot of wet dreams for the years to come just walking from Clint's classroom to Phil/James'.

Dinner was going to either be amazing or terrifying.

Clint should have known with Tasha it was usually both.

+

Tasha's handbag was now stained rust red. Phil was glaring at Clint and holding a cloth dinner napkin to his forehead. “Was that really necessary?”

Tasha sat on the ground. “The robbers were getting away. You were in the friendly fire zone, sir.”

“God, you are so putting in your after action report that you took Coulson and two armed robbers out with a handbag, salt and pepper shakers made from recycled Hop Czar bottles, and a fork,” Clint said grinning maniacally. 

“I am making sure you're both on Stark babysitting duty during Fashion Week,” Phil muttered and shook his head. “I probably have a concussion and I don't even want to think about just how much paperwork you two have accrued since I've been on leave.”

“You had amnesia like a soap star, sir,” Clint poked a finger into Phil's shoulder. “I had to call you James.”

“Your life is difficult, Barton,” Phil said and winced when the EMT flashed the penlight in his eyes. 

Clint leaned in and he put a hand to the back of Phil's neck and tugged him away from the EMT. “For a while there it really was, sir. Thought I fucking lost you.” He kissed Phil hard, just like he'd been wanting to do for the past three months. “Also, I have not been laid in forever. I took up homemade beer crafting.”

Phil rested his forehead, uninjured side against Clint's temple. “Didn't taste too bad. Little too much malt, but we can work on it.”

Clint tightened his grip on Phil's neck and he pulled back enough to meet Phil's eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We've got plenty of time,” Phil said and tugged him in for another kiss.

They both ignored the EMT.

And Natasha's relieved laugh.

The kiss tasted like salt and sweet and just a few notes of bitterness. 

Clint thought it tasted like Phil and home.

 

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> End Notes: There is a Bridgeport Brew House (www.bridgeportbrew.com) gastro pub. It is in Portland, Oregon. I have never been there, but I have been to lots of other pubs and breweries in the Portland area. They have pretty awesome beer. Hop Czar is an actual beer they have. I have no idea if they make the empties into salt and pepper shakers. Also, their menu looks delicious. I have no idea how to make beer other than what my friends who are homebrewers have told me. It looks like sorcery, but they've managed not to kill anyone so I'm pretty sure Clint would be aces at it. It was either homebrewing or learning to knit. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Schuyler for awesome beta-fu skills.


End file.
